


The Next Great Adventure

by awed_frog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s10e21 Dark Dynasty, Friendship, Heaven, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 18:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3906943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awed_frog/pseuds/awed_frog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And, Dean? When you wake up, I’ll be a story in your head. But that’s okay. We’re all stories, in the end. Just make it a good one, eh? Because it was. It was the <em>best</em>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Next Great Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> Charlie was one of us, and this is how I want to remember her.
> 
> This work is suitable for everyone, but it includes a frank discussion of death and dead bodies, passing mentions of suicidal thoughts, bullying and dubious consent. Watch your triggers, stay safe.
> 
> Also, I used several quotes (from _Harry Potter, The Princess Bride, Doctor Who, The Goonies_ and _Lord of the Rings_ ). Sometimes these quotes are not clearly defined as such. I worked them in the text as a tribute to Charlie, and I don't mean, in any way, to plagiarize those great writers and screenwriters.
> 
> Any unnecessary drama I impute to the _Last of the Mohicans_ soundtrack I was listening on repeat while writing this story.

_“Every time you said ‘Farm boy do this’ you thought I was answering ‘As you wish’ but that’s only because you were hearing wrong. ‘I love you’ was what it was, but you never heard, and you never heard.”_ \- William Goldman, _The Princess Bride_

 

Dean opens the door and the world ends. Or, at least, something in the world comes to an end, because Dean can still perceive the rest of it, very, very faintly - Sam’s tortured intake of breath behind him, the feel of the cheap wood under his fingertips, the sickening smell of copper Dean is way too familiar with - all of that, though, is dulled, out of focus.

Instead, Dean feels the Mark. It is normally never this fierce, not when he’s awake, anyway, but now the bloody thing on his arm expands and sings and takes a life of its own, filling Dean’s ears with savage joy. A friend is dead; revenge will be taken. People will die, will be gutted, stabbed, hacked to pieces. Dean closes his eyes tight against this thirst for blood, because he knows it’s not safe, it’s not _healthy_ \- of course he will kill whoever did this to Charlie, but not like _this_ , not for _this_ \- what the Mark wants and says is something much, _much_ different - because the Mark doesn’t care Charlie is dead, and that _must_ be the point, otherwise -

_That's the purity you crave - killing with no consequence._

Dean feels the growl starting in his throat, because this is _not_ him, this is _not_ what he wants - what he craves is to be himself again - what he craves is to feel _love_ in his heart, because this is what Charlie deserves - _love_ , and not this nameless, blind urge to kill. He breathes in, deeply, tries to clear his head, to silence his pain and his fury.

“We must go,” he says, curtly. “The police will be here soon.”

“Dean-”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

_Sam, kneeling at his feet, the blade of Dean's knife sticking out of his neck._

Dean grits his teeth. He carefully stashes his weapons away, takes a step forward - _It’s a job, just another job_ \- puts his arms, slowly, lovingly, around Charlie, lifts her out of the tub.

Sam has already left the room - Dean hears, in that same faint, unreal way, Baby starting up. He scans the room, but the Stynes did a clean job of it, and there is nothing left. He closes his arms more firmly around Charlie, and walks across the parking lot without looking back.

“Where is Cas?” he asks, as he puts Charlie in the back seat, arranges her as though she’s asleep.

“I’ll call him.”

“No. _I_ ’ll call him. You drive us to wherever you’ve stashed him. And as we go there, you’d better tell me everything.”

Dean dials, and Cas’ voice, deep, mournful (‘Dean, what happened? Your pain, it-’), his familiar sandpapery tone snap reality into focus once again. After he hangs up, Dean has enough presence of mind to listen to Sam’s story without turning around in his seat and kill him, but it’s a very, very close thing. Too close.

“You were dying, Dean. You _are_ dying. I didn’t know-”

“Shut up.”

They drive in silence after that, and when they get to the abandoned factory Cas is already outside, waiting for them. Dean gets out of the car, tries and fails to be angry at him. He’s too relieved Cas is alright to feel anything but a tired sense of unfairness.

“Dean, I-”

“You’re coming with me,” says Dean. “Sam, you stay with your witchy friend.”

“What?”

“I’ll call you when it’s time for the funeral. You can come to the bunker then.”

“But-”

“Sammy,” says Dean, very quietly, cutting open his tongue on every word, “if I have to look at you for one more minute, I will put a bullet through your brain. _You. Stay. Here._ Cas, come on.”

Sam doesn’t say anything after that. He looks wretched and lost, and if Dean had any pity to spare this raw, desperate feeling in his baby brother’s eyes would push him over the edge. And that’s why he turns his back on Sam, and walks away.

Cas must be getting better at reading him, or at being human in general, because he doesn’t say a single word during their drive back to the bunker. He only does this one thing, when he first gets into the car - he turns around, looks at Charlie lying on the back seat, and moves his hand in the air, once, blessing her. Dean had to pretend not to notice. He couldn’t allow himself to care, not yet.

“Don’t think I want you here,” he says, as he gets out of the car, and he was going for spiteful, instead he sounds just bitter. “I need your help with her, that’s all.”

“Whatever you need,” says Cas, meekly. 

And so they move together, Cas in front, carrying the bunker’s keys and Charlie’s bag, and Dean two steps behind him, Charlie’s body in his arms. They walk down the stairs, pass right over the spot where Kevin was killed, through the kitchen where they shared that last meal together (Dean was too drunk to remember much about it, but he knows he woke up the next day on the couch and found a paper flower in the pocket of his shirt), down the long, gloomy corridor which leads to the other outside door, the one giving onto the forest.

“Here,” says Dean, at one point, and Cas stops, obediently, and opens the door on his right.

This is what Dean thinks of as ‘the death room’. It’s an empty, cavernous space with a slab of stone in the middle, something like an altar, a sink in the corner and two shelves of grisly, unfriendly things to make the dead go away - hammers, bone saws, bleach, bottles of neatly labelled acids. 

As he lowers Charlie down on the table, he sees Kevin in her place, his eyes burned away, and he very nearly throws up.

“Do it,” he says, turning away from the body and pressing his hand against his mouth.

“Do what?”

Cas is still standing by the door, Charlie’s duffel bag in his arms.

“Use your mojo. Clean her up.”

“Dean-”

“Just _do_ it, damnit!

“No.”

Dean looks up, stares at Cas.

“What do you mean, _no_?”

“This is something important, and you should it right. Like you did for Kevin.”

And Dean is about to ask how the _fuck_ Cas would even know what happened that night, but then he feels it again, that slight tug, how his mind clears when Cas is speaking to him, and remembers - Cas is an angel again. They are connected again. Cas knows fucking _everything_ about Dean, fucking _again_. Dean tries to decide if he even missed this, and then gives up. He doesn't know anymore. He just feels tired and empty.

“Man, can’t you do this one thing for me?”

“It is exactly what I’m doing.”

Dean has killed so many things in his life that this, right here, this thing he’s asking Cas to do, should come easy to him. But most of what he’s killed have been monsters; and the rest, those humans he couldn’t save - it wouldn’t have been right to give them a hunters’ burial. Or, perhaps, Dean had always been too cowardly to stand around long enough to realize those people were actually dead. Because of _him_. Because he hadn’t gotten to them soon enough. Because he hadn’t been skilled enough, swift enough. Because he hadn’t been strong enough to kill his brother when he had the chance, and now -

“Sam loves you,” says Cas, in his quiet way.

“Stay out of my mind,” growls Dean, and then, unable to help himself, he adds, “Why even do it? Why were you helping him? You must see how insane his whole idea is.”

“Sam has a good heart. I trust him.”

Dean scoffs.

“Well, if you do, you haven’t been paying attention.”

“Sam loves you,” says Cas again. “And so do I. So did Charlie. We are all trying to help you.”

“Well, I don’t want your help - why can’t you leave me the fuck alone?”

Dean is pacing now, a righteous fury coursing through his veins, and this is not the Mark’s joyful rage, but a different, quieter thing. A long-held belief that neither of them - not himself, not his brother - is good enough for this world. They should have both died when Zachariah first put his hands on them - their bodies broken, both of them kneeling in a dirty room, choking on their own blood - the Apocalypse would still have been averted, and none of the other shit would ever had happened. Charlie would still be working at _Richard Roman Enterprises_ , and she’d have been good at it, because her boss would have been the _real_ Dick Roman, and not some dark-blooded abomination from hell. No, they both deserve to die, and it’s not too late to -

“Dean -”

“I told you - stay the _fuck_ out of my mind.”

Without noticing it, without even intending to, Dean is still moving around the room. He finds an empty bucket and soap. He kneels on the floor, gets to a pile of clean cloths. He stands up again, in a robotic, mechanical way, and goes to fill up the bucket.

When he comes back to the table, he finds Cas standing on the other side of it. His trenchcoat is gone, and he has rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. This tiny thing, this proof that Cas has once been human, is enough to make Dean ache all over. Here is another life he ruined. Another friend was tortured and killed because of him.

 _When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell, he was lost._

“Let me help you, Dean,” says Cas quietly, and the shrill voice of that angel bitch fades away.

And just like that, the rage is gone. Dean had forgotten how deeply he can feel Cas’ presence inside him. How it makes all the blood and mess go away. Not for long, because, well, he got the short end of the straw and his life sucks, but it’s still nice, still comforting, to just be a fucking human being for a second, and not a demon. Not a monster. Just to be in this room, to be himself. To feel pain and sorrow instead of the usual wave of rage and fury and deafening bloodlust.

“Here,” Dean says, fishing some scissors out of his supplies and handing them to Cas; getting a second pair for himself.

Together, they start cutting Charlie’s clothes off her. The material is sticky and hard, and Dean has to steady his hands, more than once, because he can’t bear to see those blood-covered things on her. He just wants her clean and peaceful. She deserves that much. 

Cas works quietly as well, but there is a sort of serenity in his gaze which Dean is pushing against. He can feel the sense of quiet and faith radiating off Cas like wind, but he grits his teeth against it, because he doesn’t deserve it. The more of Charlie’s skin is exposed, the worst Dean feels, and when he sees her underwear - the bright blue panties with the white letters etched on them ( _Don’t blink_ ) - he just about loses it. Charlie is so tiny. She looks about twelve. And she’s dead because of him.

The sudden noise - his own scissors falling to the floor - is way too loud. Dean passes a hand over his face, tries to think ahead - to distract himself - but the thing is, the days ahead seem to be even darker than anything he’s seen so far. The old ache is still inside him - Hell - his hands on naked skin as he sliced and cut and felt blood under his fingertips - and the Mark is twisting that pain into something unrecognizable. Dean remembers how close he’s come to killing Sam tonight, and has to take a step back from the table.

“You can see inside my head,” he says, looking down at his scuffed boots.

“Yes.”

“You can see what I want to do to you. To both of you.”

“Yes.”

“So why did you come here tonight, then?”

And now Dean is hoping that, for bloody once, Cas will lie. Because he can’t trust Sam’s optimism, his boundless certainty that everything will be alright (hell, nothing ever is) but if Cas would just say it, if Cas could say, _Because I know you won’t; because we’ll cure you_ \- then Dean will believe it. And he needs to believe it, he needs to hear -

“I was afraid you’d lose control. And if you had, and Sam had been with you, you’d have killed him. But me, you can’t hurt.”

It’s blunt, sincere, and yet another kind of lie.

“I hurt angels before. I killed angels before.”

“You can’t _hurt_ me, Dean,” says Cas again, and Dean looks up, meets his eyes, and he sees exactly what Cas means - Cas doesn’t care about dying, he’s never cared, he’s been a soldier for so long the term has lost all meaning.

Or perhaps it’s an angel thing - they probably know, they probably see, all of them, how fucking useless all of this is, this human obsession for life and death. They’re probably like freaking Gandalf - they don’t even understand why we’re so afraid of it, when death is a path we all must take, and then there’s green shores on the other side, and stuff.

And Cas is not human enough to understand, will never be human enough to understand, that despite all this, despite Dean _knowing_ , somewhere deep down, that Charlie’s death is _not_ his fault, he still feels responsible. Despite _knowing_ Heaven is real, and sweet as pie, he still feels utterly and completely destroyed. And despite _knowing_ Cas won’t care one way or the other - or perhaps _exactly_ because Cas won’t care one way or the other - Dean could not survive if he - if he was forced to -

“Dean,” says the angel, and Dean wakes up again, and reality is sharp, it presses and taps against his very skull.

Cas is standing over the bucket of soapy water; he’s waving a hand over it.

“I'm making it warm. It’s unpleasant to bathe with cold water,” he says, and this just about breaks Dean’s heart, because of course, Charlie won’t care, and yet this is very, very _important_ ; it is, in a way, _everything_.

The last time Dean did this, he was alone. Kevin had been lying on this same table - Dean had scrubbed at his skin to erase the smell of burned flesh, that light, pervasive stink of frankincense angels left behind them when they killed - and then he’d dressed the kid again, carried him outside, and burned his body. Sam had been lost inside his own mind then, his body wandering around God knew where; and Cas hadn’t come for three days. Dean had spent that entire time in a chair, drinking, crying, trying and failing to get the stench of smoke and human flesh out of his nostrils. He remembers having thought, before passing out for the second time, that he would have done anything, _anything_ , not to be there again. He would have found his brother, gotten that fucking angel out of him, and then stopped hunting. Whatever. He just couldn’t -

And yet, here he is again. Cleaning blood with soapy water in quick, efficient strokes. Doing his best not to imagine how much those wounds must have hurt. How scared Charlie must have been. And now he’s breathing hard, he’s panicking, he can’t -

“Dean. Dean, talk to me.”

Cas is standing next to him, he’s touching his shoulder, pressing down, trying to ground him, but Dean shakes his head.

“I can’t do it anymore, Cas. I just can’t,” he says, in a strangled sob.

Cas is quiet for a long moment, his hand warm and comforting through the cheap fabric of Dean’s tee-shirt.

“Would it help to talk to Charlie?” he asks in the end, a bit diffidently, as though afraid to make matters even worse.

Dean is so stunned he stops breathing - he just looks up, stares at Cas.

“I still don’t understand how this works - some people find it easier to move on at once,” says Cas, and it’s almost an apology, and Dean doesn’t even hear it, because his mind is still spinning.

“What do you mean, talk to Charlie?”

“Heaven is not a physical place, Dean. It’s an emanation of my Father’s Grace. And so am I, in a way. I have a direct connection to Heaven, which means you do as well. There is a bond between us.”

Dean lets his eyes fall on the real Charlie - her matching _Doctor Who_ underwear more clear-cut than ever against her pale, clean skin - and finds himself nodding.

“Get me to her,” he says.

“I don’t know how long you’ll be able to stay,” says Cas, but his hand is already moving, squeezing Dean’s shoulder a last time, a reassuring, human gesture, before coming to rest on his forehead, his fingertips very light on Dean’s skin.

On instinct, Dean reaches out and closes his own hand on Cas’ arm, anchoring himself.

“Close your eyes,” the angel says, and all goes dark.

Dean feels the heat first. It’s a pleasant, lazy warmth, like a summer night in the South. He can hear a bird calling in the distance, and some kind of cricket screeching and pattering somewhere near his feet. He takes a deep breath, and he smells earth and flowers.

When Dean opens his eyes, it is still dark, but it is a friendly kind of darkness. He is standing in a garden, under a streetlamp, and his heart skips a beat, because Charlie is right there, Dean sees her at once. 

There is a house, a pretty one. Over the porch, there is one of those plants - the one with those huge-ass flowers which always make him think of English people drowning in ponds; and there’s also wild ivy, perhaps, growing and blooming around the pretty little railings. Everything is quiet, but, despite the late night feeling, two windows are still lit.

Charlie is sitting on the stairs. All Dean can see in the darkness is her red hair, longer than the last time she saw her (pale, white, dead on the bunker's table - _Don't go there, don't think that_ ), but he knows immediately it's her. As he walks closer, his feet making no noise on the soft grass, he realizes she looks exactly like she did the first day they met. She’s even wearing that stupid blue jacket, and the Princess Leia tee-shirt. Dean remembers joking about it with Sam afterwards - this skinny, nerdy girl, and the huge black letters spelling _REBEL_ across her chest. And as he remembers this, how full of life, how happy Charlie was before she met the two of them, he stops, hesitates. Everything looks so real, and yet he knows he doesn't belong here. He can feel his connection to Cas, and if he closes his eyes, he can smell the cold, slightly spicy smell of the bunker. This is Charlie's heaven, and he's not sure if she’d even want -

“Dean?”

Charlie has raised her head, and now she's looking at him. Before he can say anything, she's standing up, she's running towards him.

“I can't believe you're here,” she says, fiercely, drowning him in a tight hug.

“Charlie, I -”

“You're not dead, are you? Those bastards didn't get you - tell me they didn't!”

She's _worried_ about him. She's panicking about _him_.

Dean closes his eyes and hugs her back, just as tight, trying to hide his face.

“No,” he says, a bit thickly. “They didn't.”

He can feel Charlie smile against his neck; and then she takes a step back, looks up at him.

“I sent you an email,” she says, and now she looks proud of herself. “About the book.”

“Let's not talk about the damn book.”

“Dean-”

“Is this your house, then?”

Charlie turns around, makes a sort of wave. The light on the ground floor turns off.

“It's Jennifer's. Her mom said she’d wait up until my parents arrived, but now you're here, she should go to bed. It's very late,” she adds, sensibly, as if they're not standing in fucking _Heaven_ and any of this actually makes sense.

Dean pushes his hands in his pockets and tries not to think - not to focus on Charlie, and that she's dead, and that her Heaven is, apparently, standing alone on a porch of someone else's house - it's _his_ fault, all of it - people keep dying, and he can't stop it - yelling at Sam doesn't help, not anymore, not at all, because the Mark now flares up, hot and angry against his skin, every time Dean is upset with his brother, and it shows Dean, in gory, shocking detail, his brother dying - whispers to him how easy it would be to just do it, to just reach out and -

_This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith._

It's Cas' voice, and Dean doesn't know where it's coming from. The inside of his head, probably, but is it a memory, or is Cas talking to him? He bites his lip, hard, tries to ground himself, and all of a sudden he can feel Cas' hand against his face, and for a split second he's in two places at once - he's in the death room, Cas standing in front of him, and there is such love in his eyes that Dean can't breathe, and he's also with Charlie, looking at a white country house in the middle of a summer night. He stumbles, almost falls down at the weird feeling, and Charlie catches him.

“Whoa. Are you okay?”

“Let's just -” says Dean, but can't think how to finish the sentence.

“Here,” says Charlie, and she takes his arm, and leads him away from the house, and as they walk, the soft grass beneath Dean's shoes gives way to dirt, then to concrete.

They keep walking together in silence, five minutes or so, until they reach the main road. It’s too dark to see what lies beyond it - fields, perhaps, and a forest in the distance - but the streetlamp behind them is so bright that it hardly matters at all.

“This other night when I was nine, we had a barbecue in the garden, all of us,” says Charlie, “and the streetlamp went dark, and all of a sudden we could see all these stars - it was beautiful. My dad taught me all their names.”

As she talks, the streetlamp fades and turns off. The only source of light is the one lit window in the house behind them, but it’s too far away to make a difference. There is no moon, not even a lonely crescent, but the stars are so bright Dean can still see Charlie’s profile. When she catches him looking at her, she smiles.

“Look up,” she says, and Dean does.

He’s been outside at night, many, many times, and yet it’s still a shock - all those stars, and the Milky Way, stretching like a fiery belt from one end of the sky to the other.

“Here,” says Charlie, and now she’s sitting down, lying down, actually, on the street, and Dean rolls his eyes but follows suit.

The concrete is pleasantly warm, and Dean spreads his fingers wide, grazing his skin against it, seeking the comfort of heat.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

“It is.”

They remain in silence for a moment, side by side, taking in the view.

“That’s Mars, see the reddish light?” says Charlie from beside him, and Dean sees, out of the corner of his eye, her arm stretching up, her finger pointing. 

He doesn’t want to look, though, not particularly - not at Mars, the god of war. He’s had enough trouble for a lifetime.

“Show me Uranus,” he says instead, trying to keep his voice serious, but Charlie sees right through it, and starts to laugh.

“I’m sorry I died,” she says, when she manages to breathe again, and Dean feels like an anvil was dropped on his head.

“Me too,” he says, tightly, trying to keep his voice level.

“No, I mean,” Dean feels Charlie moving around, turning to look at him, but he doesn’t move, “I was stupid, I was careless. I never wanted you to deal with that. It’s just - what the witch said, you know. It got to me. That we were the same.”

“Yeah, well. Rowena is a bitch and a liar. You’re nothing like her. And apparently sometimes people are stupid for the right reasons.”

Charlie makes a doubtful noise, then goes on.

“Are you even listening to me? It was _my_ fault. I don’t want you to blame _yourself_ for this. I _mean_ it.”

“Right,” says Dean, staring up at the sky, ignoring how Charlie is looking down at him, all fierce and mad.

“You’re still doing it. I can see it in your face,” she insists, and Dean just gives up. 

“Charlie, everyone around me dies. Everyone,” he says. “How can it _not_ be my fault?”

He’s trying very hard to keep it together, but he knows he’s not being very successful.

“It’s not about _fault_ ,” scoffs Charlie, and she lowers herself back on the road again. “It's because you're the hero.”

“What?”

“The hero,” she repeats, slowly, as though Dean is very, very dumb. “You know? Of the story?”

“I'm not a hero.”

“Debatable. But that’s not what I said. You're _the_ hero - the hero of this story.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. Sam would know exactly how to shut her up, because it’s ridiculous, what she’s saying - there must be a thousand reasons why she’s not making any sense - but Dean was never very good with books, so he just lies there, and all he can do is trying, very hard, to believe her, because anything is bound to be better than all of this actually being his fault after all.

“It’s a classic plot thing, really - you’re a bit like Harry - of course everyone dies around him - his parents, and Sirius, and Dobby - was it Harry’s fault?”

And Dean would never, ever admit this to Sam, but he actually knows what Charlie is talking about, and he shakes his head.

“No, it wasn’t,” she goes on, because, of course, it’s dark and she can’t see him. “All of that _had_ to happen so Harry could become who he truly was, and save the world.”

“Yeah, well, not doing so well there.”

“Right,” she says, and now there’s sarcasm in her voice, thick and sweet like syrup. Dean sees her raise her arms in the air again, see her counting on her fingers. “You stopped a demon from creating an army of demon babies -”

“That was not -”

“- you fought against Lilith, and Lucifer, and Michael, and you prevented the _Apocalypse_ -”

“Actually -”

“- you managed to destroy a whole race of evil monsters who wanted to use us as food -”

“Well -”

“- but we must admit I did half the work, you wouldn’t have gotten far without me -”

“That’s true -”

“- you killed a knight of Hell -”

“Yes, and that’s why -”

“- you killed Cain and stopped him from murdering thousands of people -”

“Would you stop? None of this stuff is -”

“- and through all that, you managed to become a beautiful, shiny butterfly,” Charlie adds, and Dean must actually laugh at this.

“What the hell are you _talking_ about?”

“Dean, I read the books,” she says, and he can hear a smile in her voice. “No offense, but when you were younger you were kind of a douchebag.”

“I was not,” Dean starts, but then he smiles as well. “Okay, I was. Maybe a bit.”

An owl hoots in the distance. The crickets fall silent, wary, then start singing again.

“You see it now?”

“Whatever. I still think it sucks.”

“It does, some of it. But being the hero has its perks.”

“Yeah? I'm not seeing any. My parents are dead. My friends are dead. My brother spends half his time being this evil, soulless thing, or actively trying to kill me. Every week there’s something new out there which is ready to put a price on my head.”

“The hero gets the girl.”

“Right. Because _that_ is happening.”

“It always happens. In every story.”

“Right.”

“Listen, you've done the hard part already. He's in love with you. Now you just have to reach out and get him.”

“Listen, Lisa -” starts Dean, and then stops, because he realizes Charlie just said _he._

_He’s in love with you._

There is a stretch of silence. Dean looks up at the stars flickering above him, wonders if he should change the subject. He hopes and fears that Charlie will say something else. But Charlie doesn't.

“It's not that easy,” he says in the end.

“If it were, it wouldn't be a good story,” she says softly.

“How was it for you?” he asks, and Charlie is Charlie, and she’s wonderful, so she knows exactly what he means, and laughs.

“When I was in Junior High, I watched _Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark_ with a bunch of girlfriends, and everybody went in full swoon mode for Harrison Ford. But me - I liked Marion. The way she drank the guy under the table...and that smile…”

“She was a cool chick,” Dean agrees.

“And two years after that there was this girl. She’d always look at me, and look away. And one day I waited for her after English class and kissed her.”

“Go Charlie! What happened?”

“Her friends pinned me down and beat me. So I stopped going to school and decided to be awesome instead.”

Her tone is light, but Dean is not fooled. Without speaking, he reaches out, finds her hand in the darkness and squeezes it. She squeezes back.

“How about you?” she asks after a moment.

“I -”

Dean hesitates. He knows Cas knows. Cas knows everything about him, his soul - his past - hell, he probably knows his future as well, could draw a map of his nervous system. And Dean's wondered, from time to time, if Sam knows. If his dad knew. You always think you're subtle when you're a kid, but, well, you're not. Not really.

“Some guy in a bar,” he says at last. “I'd gone in looking for dad, I must have been, I don't know, thirteen? I couldn't see him anywhere, and Sam was sick - not _sick_ sick, he used to get those nightmares, had begged me to go get dad, even if -”

Dean stops, clenches his jaw. Charlie strokes his hand with her thumb, very lightly.

“Anyway, I went to check the bathroom, and there was this guy - some college kid, but he looked grown-up to me. He was wearing one of those varsity sweater, he was - he was cool.”

Dean will remember that moment until the day he dies. Cool. _Right._ The guy was _gorgeous_. Dark hair, grey, colourless eyes, a hint of stubble, and a bright smile. The way he looked at Dean - the way he said, slurring his words, _I knew you'd come -_

“He was so drunk, he could barely stand up. Called me Andrew. And then he sort of grabbed me, and -”

Dean stops, a bit embarrassed.

“Kissed you?” asks Charlie, gleefully. “Smooched the hell out of you?”

“That,” says Dean, forcing out a laugh. “And things. And then he said, _Why are you so short?_ and I said, _I’m standing in a hole_.”

“You used a _Goonies_ line? You _never_!”

Charlie is laughing so hard she lets go of Dean's hand and has to sit up, and she still looks like she's going to suffocate at any minute.

“And then?” she asks, still gasping.

“And then he passed out.”

Dean wishes he could tell Charlie about it, could describe it better - his fear about what was happening, how aroused he was, the sudden disappointment after the guy just collapsed on the dirty tiles. He hadn’t known, until then, that this was something he wanted. He hadn’t known it was possible, that people did it. He'd wanted to shake the guy awake, he’d been desperate to do - do _something_ , do _more_ \- but he was also terrified, because he’d had no idea what was actually going on, what was expected from him - and then his dad had walked in, a bit drunk, and that had been it. The barked scolding, the jaded exasperation. They’d gone back to the motel room, found Sammy was already asleep, because Sammy always did that, always woke up in the middle of the night crying, insisting he’d never sleep again, and then, the second Dean had his back turned, working on whatever the hell Sammy wanted, _absolutely needed_ (a glass of milk, a soda, chocolate), Sammy fell asleep again. And that night - his dad hadn’t even believed Sammy had woken up in the first place, he’d grumbled, in a low, dangerous voice ( _Don’t think I don’t know what you were up to_ ); he’d pushed Dean towards the empty bed and had collapsed on the couch. After a few minutes, he’d been snoring, and Dean had been left alone in the dark, a million thoughts racing through his head.

“It's not easy to be different,” says Charlie, out of the blue, and Dean sees she's looking down at him, her silver earrings catching the starlight. “But it's worth it, all of it, when someone loves you.”

“I guess.”

“I'm sure. And I'm always right, remember?”

“Yeah, you're also dead, so -”

And Dean is such a moron, and he never, ever meant to say this, but Charlie just laughs.

“Don't worry about that. I don’t mind. I’m sure there’s a lot of things to do up here,” she says, looking into the distance, almost sniffing in the vast emptiness around them.

“Charlie, I -”

Dean sits up as well.

“It's all my fault. I wish you'd never met me, us, I wish you could have -”

“Don't say that - meeting you - you have no idea, do you?”

Dean feels a sort of tug, and knows Cas is calling him back. He ignores it.

“No idea about what?”

“You grew up with monsters, and you think that's a bad thing. But the rest of us, Dean - I grew up with _nothing_. I used to watch those movies and read these books and pretend it was real. I'd cry because dragons were not real. Getting that job at _Roman Enterprises_ \- I just felt I had to grow up, and I was trying to be happy about it, but, Dean, _magic_ \- you cannot imagine how _colourless_ life is without magic.”

Dean looks away, unconvinced. All he sees are the claws, the blood, the endless killing. Black smoke and demons. The damn Apocalypse.

“ _Listen_ to me. The day you came to my flat was the happiest day of my life.”

“Charlie, I -”

“I read the books, Dean. I get it. I know what you went through. Hellhounds and angry gods and all that - but you also got to see angels, to travel through time, to meet fairies -”

“And wasn’t that fun,” Dean mumbles under his breath, but Charlie ignores him. 

“The rest of us - all we have are the Benders, Dean. All of the nastiness, none of the charm.”

“Uh-uh.”

“No, I’m serious. Being here - do you think that matters? _To a well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure_.”

“Right,” says Dean, and there’s something he really wants to say, but he gets distracted. “Wait, are you quoting _Harry Potter_? Seriously?”

“Takes one to know one.”

Cas is calling again, and Dean panics a little bit, and the words tumble of his mouth before he can decide if it’s even a good idea to say this. 

“You talk about adventures - no offense, but aren’t you stuck on the side of the road, outside someone else’s house? How is that an adventure?”

And Charlie - Charlie fucking smiles.

“I told you. My parents are coming.”

“Are you sure about that? Where are they?”

“I guess I wasn't ready before. But I am now. See?”

She points, and Dean sees the lights of a car in the distance, hears the soft hum of the faraway engine as if Charlie’s words have conjured it up from thin air. They both stand up, and the streetlamp behind them lights up again.

Charlie is keeping her eyes on the approaching car, and now she looks happy. Really happy.

“So you're going to be okay?” asks Dean.

“Yes. Yes, I am,” she says, turning her head, looking up at him. “And, Dean? When you wake up, I’ll be a story in your head. But that’s okay. We’re all stories, in the end.”

Dean is still trying to decide if that is some sort of quote - Charlie got all serious, but her eyes were sparking with mischief - when she closes the distance between them, hugs him tight, and whispers in his ear, “Just make it a good one, eh? Because it was. It was the _best_.”

Dean hugs her back, and he never wants to let go.

“Thank you, Charlie,” he says, against her hair. “For everything. You are the best.”

And then everything goes completely dark, and then bright, and Dean blinks, then raises one hand against the dazzling light.

Cas is standing in front of him. His hand traces Dean's cheek, his jaw, then fades away.

Dean glances down at the table. Charlie is wearing new clothes now. Her hair is braided. There are two silver knives on her belt, those Elven blades she loved so much even though Dean kept telling her they were useless. And Cas has somehow placed a copy of _The Hobbit_ under her arm, close to her heart. Dean reaches out, pats the cover, looks up at Cas.

“Thank you,” he says. “For that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Were you watching?”

“Yes. I apologize. I did not mean to eavesdrop, it is just how it works.”

“Don't worry. I'm sure you didn't learn anything you didn't already know.”

Cas looks at him seriously, tilts his head to the side, just a tiny bit.

“And what about you, Dean? Did _you_ learn anything new?”

Dean looks away, then at Cas’ face again. His eyes pass over the familiar, sharp angles, Cas’ straight nose, his slightly chapped lips. He knows he's staring, but he can't help himself. He feels both heavy and light, and also very, very _tired_. The Mark is still pulsating on his arm, a light, irritating itch. And as he looks at Cas, his vision blurs, and he can see his own hands, red with blood, pinning Cas against the wall - he sees Cas’ deep blue eyes glaze over, the shape of his broken wings etched on the concrete - 

And then the real Cas reaches out, touches Dean’s hand with his own, very lightly, and the horrific image flickers and dissolves. Dean breathes in, deeply, sharply, and then turns his hand in Cas', locks their fingers together.

“Just stick around, okay? Don't disappear again.”

“As you wish,” says Cas, in his serious, gravelly voice, but there’s something there - is that - is that _amusement_?

“Wait, is that from _Princess Bride_? What is _wrong_ with you people?”

Dean tries to open his arms in exasperation, but Cas won't let him go - instead, he squeezes Dean’s hand, closes the distance between them, gives him a quick, close-lipped kiss on the corner of his mouth.

And before Dean can appreciate what’s happening, before he can react in any way, Cas has let go of his hand, and is serious again.

“You need sleep,” he says. “Why don’t you go back to your room? I’ll watch over Charlie.”

And Dean sorts of nods, and walks away, but as he reaches the door he can't help himself - he turns and looks at Cas, and there is a smile on Cas’ face, there and gone in a second, and Dean knows instinctively that smile is not about him. Cas just had a glimpse of Charlie’s new life, and that has made him happy. And just this, this fleeting smile, fills Dean with a sudden quiet, with a wide, serene feeling. They are still in danger, and tomorrow he will wake up and there will be a thousand other shitty things he will have to deal with, but, in the end, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all. Isn’t this, isn’t Charlie mischievous happiness, her tight hugs, isn’t Cas’ rare smile and fiery grace, isn’t Sam’s good heart what really counts? Isn’t what counts to _love_ one another, for as long as we can? To keep watch over one another, when the world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass? To be with one another still, only, this time, in a different country, a country of green shores under a swift sunrise?


End file.
